‘Do you know a field called the Creelagh, Isabel?’
She seemed puzzled.
‘The Shaking Field, then?’
‘Oh, yes, I know that. Part of it goes with this house, but we never use it. It’s peat-land. Whoever owned this house or was a tenant, had the right to cut peat from the Shaking Field. My father used to cut turf and we burned it. I don’t use peat. My sister brings me wood in the van whenever I get short.’
‘Has anyone been digging there recently?’
She gave him a surprised look as if he’d gone slightly off his head.
‘Whatever would they dig there for? I’ve not been there for years, but nobody but the occupier of the house would be allowed to do anything in our part. It’s in the deeds.’
‘Didn’t people used to store things like butter in small kegs or boxes there in the old days?’
‘We never had butter enough to store it. We never had any cattle . . .’
She paused.
‘I remember, though, when I was a girl . . . But perhaps I ought not to tell you. It was a secret and my father said he’d thrash us if we ever told anybody . . .’
‘He’s been dead for years. Couldn’t you tell me what it was about as, I’m sure, no harm could come of it after all this time?’
She was silent again and then seemed to make up her mind.
‘You’re sure the police couldn’t do anything about it if they got to know, because I believe father would have had to go to gaol if he’d been found out?’
The Archdeacon’s imagination began to work. Could he have hidden a body there, or a treasure of some sort? Perhaps stolen goods or illegal weapons of some kind.
‘You know my father came to the Isle of Man from Ireland. County Kerry. He had a recipe for making something with a lot of pipes and a boiler. He used to brew it in the kitchen and then he hid the pipes and the boiler and a small tub in the bog, because if the police found them it would be hard with him.’
‘Was he making poteen?’
‘I don’t know what it was called, but he sometimes got drunk on it. He used potatoes. He had them in tubs in the kitchen.’
‘Surely, he didn’t tell you all this? How old were you then, Isabel?’
‘About ten. He certainly didn’t tell me. But there are few secrets between people living in a house like this. My sister and me slept in a bed in this room and the boys in the loft. My father and mother and two younger sisters slept in a bed in that corner. When they thought we were asleep, they used to talk. Mother didn’t like him making his drink. He’d bring men in now and then and give them some and they’d start singing and shouting and my mother had to stop them coming, because someone would hear them and she was frightened the police would find out. My sister was too young to trouble at all, but I would be awake, pretending to be asleep and I heard all the arguing between my parents about it. I never saw my father actually making the stuff, because we were put to bed early when he was busy with it in the kitchen with the front door locked and a chair wedged behind it to make double sure.’
‘And he hid the apparatus in the bog, in the Shaking Field?’
‘Yes. I know, because my mother was afraid someone would find it there. She said she hoped it would sink and vanish in the bog, but he said the place where he hid it had peat as solid as boards and there was no fear of that. I remember it all as plain as if it was yesterday, because I was afraid of it all. You see, my father got drunk on his stuff and then, when my mother argued with him, he used to beat her . . .’
She paused.
‘Trouble. Always trouble for as long as I can remember. You think it’s all over and you can have a bit of peace. And then, back it comes. Now it’s Joss and he’s got himself killed. First my father and mother quarrelling, then Joss disturbing the house when I’d got it all nice and quiet and cosy, and now he’s been murdered and the police are about the place. I wonder what will be next.’
She seemed too sunk in despair even to weep.
The Archdeacon did his best to comfort her, promised the police would bother her as little as possible, and when it was all over, he’d do his best to see that she was settled back in quiet and comfort again.
She offered him tea and he, afraid to upset her by refusing and thinking the preparation might take her mind off her present distress, accepted. She produced some home-made soda cakes which were surprisingly good and he was able to tell her truthfully that the tea, probably made with soft spring water, was the nicest he’d tasted for many a day.
6
Ballakee
KNELL PRIDED himself on his knowledge of the curragh roads and tracks, but the way to Ballakee Manor almost defeated him. They could see the house from the car, but he circumnavigated it two and a half times before he found the gravel approach which led to the entrance gates to the park, if such desolation merited the name. The gates were open and looked as if they’d never been shut for years; the hinges of one had rusted away and it had been fastened askew by a piece of rope to one of the shabby pilasters. The house was visible in the distance, set among an unkempt four or five acres of wild bramble and gorse. An attempt had been made at some time to introduce order there and there were traces of flower beds, a few decayed garden ornaments and a tumbledown summer house visible, but the present tenants had obviously left everything to go to ruin.
‘It’s not a manor house at all . . .’
Knell had told Littlejohn as much of the history of the place as he knew.
‘. . . It was a smallish farm and was empty for a long time. Then a man called Egerton bought it and sold off all the land except that near to the house and spent a lot of money enlarging it and improving it. He must have been off his head spending so much on a place miles from anywhere in a spot like this. They say he’d been an official in the colonies. He had two Chinese servants and lived in seclusion. He got in trouble for setting his dogs on intruders. Then, one day, he and his staff left the house, just as it was with the furniture in it, and went away without a word. News came later that he’d gone over to England to see a doctor and had died there. The manor was emptied and tidied up and the Duffys took it over. It’s said there’s something wrong with the title to the place; the deeds have been lost, or something. However, Colonel Duffy seems to have settled in after a fashion. Judging from the ruin of the grounds he, too, might be a bird of passage.’
They drew up at the front door after running over a gravel path almost obliterated by moss and overgrown bushes.
The house, which was not without charm, had a forlorn, forgotten look in the middle of its desolate garden and barren trees. It was a long, flat stuccoed affair which might have been cheered by a coat of paint or whitewash, but nobody seemed to care about that and the shabby woodwork and rusty downspouts added to the general atmosphere of sadness and despair.
Knell had, from his boundless fund of local information, already given Littlejohn some details about the inhabitants.
‘Kincaid, the village constable, says they live alone. No servants. They never seem to have visitors, not even tradesmen. The woman does their shopping at a little stores in the village and collects the papers every day as she’s out horseback riding. Now and then, if they need a plumber or a joiner, he’s admitted, but they keep an eye on him all the time he’s doing the job. The man who reads the electric meters calls, too, but Kincaid says he’s in and out without seeing what goes on indoors.’
‘Kincaid seems to be a very diligent officer.’
‘In a small village, news travels fast and if they can’t find a reason or an explanation for anything, they make one up. News about your coming here got around before you’d even arrived, and Kincaid said that, as you were from London, the murder of Joss Varran must have international connections.’
Before they could knock on the door, a figure appeared from round the corner of the house. A tall, stooping, heavily built man, dark and with a black beard, in corduroy trousers and an open-necked shirt. He wore a battered felt hat. He
was carrying a bucket, a large sponge and a fistful of dusters. He paused and looked them up and down.
‘You’re Inspector Knell, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘They said you were about.’
‘Who did?’
‘In the village. Everybody’s on about Joss Varran’s murder.’
‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’
‘Yes. I’ve seen you, too. At funerals. I’m the church grave-digger. Name’s Quantrell.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Odd jobs. Aren’t enough funerals to keep me alive. I do a bit for the forestry board, but that’s only casual and doesn’t bring in enough. I married a young wife late in life and we’ve two kids.’
Quantrell seemed set to give the fullest particulars of his personal finances and anything else they cared to know. He was, after all, earning five shillings an hour and talking was the best way of passing the time.
‘Have you been cleaning the car?’
‘Yes. It’s standing round the corner. Come and take a look. It’s a museum piece.’
It was too. An old Bentley touring model shining with bright brass. It must have been around fifty years old.
And E. D. Cojeen had told them that Joss Varran’s last journey home had been made in a vintage Bentley.
‘Who drives this?’
‘The Colonel mostly did, until he got sick and couldn’t trust himself to drive any more. He’s very proud of it. Says he used to join in all the rallies when he was in England. It’s a fine car. Better than many of these fancy new ones.’
‘Who services it?’
‘I do. My father used to be a blacksmith and I used to drive the steam roller for the highway board. Then they changed from steam to diesel oil and the fumes got on me chest. So I packed it up.’
Knell blinked at the list of qualifications.
‘And that makes you able to act as mechanic for the old Bentley.’
‘I’ve had it in pieces and put it together again. The Colonel played hell but he had to admit that it ran better after.’
Littlejohn coughed to remind Knell that they had work to do. The encounter between Knell and Quantrell was developing into what the Manx call a li’l cooish, an interminable exchange of news.
Knell then introduced Littlejohn and the ex-steam rollerman.
‘Anybody at home in the manor?’ asked Littlejohn.
‘The Colonel’s in, but you’ll have to let me tell him you’re here. He’s cleaning the brasses and you’ll have to give him time to move the brasses and change his workin’ clothes. He doesn’t like it if he’s caught doing housework.’
‘Is Miss Sarah at home?’
‘She’s out riding in the curraghs. She’ll be back shortly. The Colonel will be wanting his tea and he won’t do any cookin’, so she’s got to be back.’
‘You’d better tell him we’re here, then.’
‘What if he won’t see you?’
‘Tell him it’s the police.’
‘That’ll shake him, won’t it? Is he suspected, then?’
‘Just tell him we’re here.’
Quantrell went inside and closed the door behind him. It was a good five minutes before he returned. He must have been persuading the colonel that he’d better see the police.
‘Come this way.’
They found themselves in a large hall with very little in it. A hat-stand, a chair, a Persian rug on the floor, and not much else. A wide staircase rose from the back of the hall. Like the outside, everything had a moth-eaten look.
Quantrell opened a door to the left and indicated by a motion of his head that they might enter and then he left them.
The room was large and had broad windows overlooking the neglected garden. This, too, was sparsely furnished. A few chairs scattered about, two arm-chairs in front of an anthracite stove burning in the fireplace, which was of stone, spacious, and with a coat of arms of some kind or another on the keystone. A small dining table, a sideboard, and a grandfather clock ticking in one corner. It might have been that the occupants had arrived without much furniture and had bought their bare requirements in auction rooms.
Duffy was sitting in one of the arm-chairs, his legs stretched out to the fire. He did not rise to his feet but merely turned in the direction of the newcomers.
‘Come in.’
He looked anything but an army man. Judging from the short legs stretched to the stove, he was small. Round faced, with a mottled purple complexion fading to an unhealthy yellow under his ears, thin white hair carefully parted and brushed across a low forehead, and a small clipped moustache. He was wearing an old tweed suit and looked to have settled himself in his present posture to meet his questioners. There was a tray with a bottle of whisky, a syphon and a half-filled glass at his elbow on a small table.
‘I gather you’re the police and wish to see me. What’s it all about?’
He raised his bushy eyebrows and disclosed his pale expressionless eyes. Otherwise, he showed little interest. Then he looked at Littlejohn suspiciously.
‘You’re not from these parts.’
Knell interposed to introduce Littlejohn and himself.
‘Scotland Yard. Good God! What’s been happening and how does it concern me?’
‘As you know, sir there’s been a crime at Close Dhoo. Joss Varran, your near neighbour, was murdered the other night.’
‘Quantrell did mention it I won’t be much help to you. I didn’t even know the fellow.’
‘Are you sure? We’ve been informed that he was seen about this place last year.’
‘Last year? That’s a long time ago and in any case, whatever he came for was no concern of mine. Probably called to see Quantrell about something. You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think I had anything to do with the crime. Why the hell are you pestering me about it?’
He fumbled in his pocket, produced a cigarette case, fumbled in that and then lit a cigarette.
‘I’m not well and came here for a bit of peace and quiet. I don’t want bothering by the police or anybody else about things that don’t concern me. As for getting involved with Scotland Yard, the thing’s preposterous. Why choose me to harass with your enquiries . . .?’
He got no further for they were disturbed by the arrival outside of a woman on horseback. She dismounted, handed the reins to Quantrell, who pointed to the house and said a few words, presumably about the arrival of the police, and strode indoors.
‘My niece is here. You’d better ask her, although she knows as little as I do.’
His niece! First his wife, then his daughter, and some had said his mistress. It seemed true that when country folk couldn’t find an answer to a situation, they made one up.
She came right in without any delay or preamble. She was not in the least disconcerted by their presence and gazed steadily at them.
‘What’s going on here?’
It was quite certain that whenever she entered a room, the rest of the people and contents were, momentarily, at least, forgotten. She was tall, well built and strong, and confident. She was dark, like a gypsy, with fine features and a passionate mouth and clear brown eyes. The sort who would bring philanderers like Joss Varran eagerly in her wake and, judging from her apparent annoyance at the intruders, deal with them suitably.
Knell explained the purpose of their visit just as he had done to her uncle.
She ignored him and confined herself to Littlejohn, whom she judged at once was the higher authority.
‘I expect this is a door-to-door excursion in search of information. I can tell you right away that this sordid little affair is no concern of ours and you must leave my uncle in peace. He is unwell and is in this remote place for the benefit of his health. He must not be disturbed.’
‘There are one or two questions we wish to ask you and then we’ll trouble you both no further . . .’
‘I’m surprised at you, Chief Superintendent, traipsing round the countryside, wasting your
valuable time, on a crime which has obviously been committed by some vagrant or other for the sake of a few pounds . . .’
‘Excuse me, Miss Duffy, but what I do with my time is no affair of yours. Inspector Knell is a personal friend of mine, and I’m helping him with a case about which you seem to know much more than your uncle, who says he knows nothing at all about it and apparently cares less. Now, will you listen to me and be reasonable. You seem to be causing the commotion, not us. If you and your uncle will quietly answer what we have to ask, we’ll leave you in peace . . .’
Her initial fit of temper seemed to leave her and she quietened down.
‘Very well. Be brief then. What do you wish to know?’
‘Did you know the victim, Joss Varran?’
‘Why should we? He was a near neighbour but we didn’t associate with him. As a matter of fact, we couldn’t if we’d wished to. Until the day of the crime, he was in gaol and had been there for over a year.’
‘You seem well informed about his movements?’
‘All the information is in the newspapers. Do you wish me to produce them and show you?’
‘No. Presumably your uncle isn’t as interested in such news as you are.’
She bit her lip angrily.
‘Please get on . . .’
‘We’re informed that before he left and was put in gaol he was seen around this house. Can you explain that?’
‘He certainly didn’t come here at our invitation, nor did we see him. He must have been after Quantrell for something.’
‘Perhaps we’d better have Quantrell in and ask him . . .’
‘You will do no such thing. You can interrogate him on your way out, which I hope will be very soon.’
‘You have a Bentley car, I believe. What one would call a vintage model?’
‘Yes. It was a hobby of my uncle’s when he was in better health.’
Littlejohn turned to the Colonel.
The Night They Killed Joss Varran (An Inspector Littlejohn Mystery) Page 7